


Let Me Go

by DunnDunnDunn



Category: Blomsterfangen, Hannibal (TV), Kavanagh QC
Genre: Hannibal AU, King Arthur reference, M/M, Mild Language, Past Drug Use, drug use tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunnDunnDunn/pseuds/DunnDunnDunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiction inspired by Haanigram's Hannibal junkie AU. Characters Michael (Hugh Dancy's role in "Kavanagh QC") and Max (Mads Mikkelsen's role in Blomsterfangen), both recovering addicts, meet at a London fairway and begin a dramatic affair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hannibal Junkie AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/57286) by Haanigram. 



> Michael and Max meet, smoke cigarettes, and toss balls (fnar).

London proves cold and gray when he arrives, and the building sites he finds work on offer little variation in hue. Copenhagen had its own brand of cold and dark, but it seemed natural, part of a cohesive system; London’s own was like a outstretched hand, lowering to take.

 

It’s the fairway’s lights that catch his eye as he’s struggling with the janky lock on his flat door after work - they’re bright, multicolored, twinkling, as cheery as a holiday. A distance away, but close enough, tempting enough. He’s got nowhere else to go for the night, and nothing in the flat to eat. He checks his pockets for his cigarettes, a few coins and rolled-up bills, and decides, after a tugged sniff, that his work-shirt likely doesn’t stink that badly.

 

On closer approach, the fair’s not any sort of idealized fantasy-land - it’s trailers and booths, built for quick set-up and tear-down. There’s rides, nothing extensive, mostly things that circle or go up and down, just the right size for a sticky toddler to be plonked down and quelled for a half-moment. There’s food, candyfloss and fizzy lemonades and jacket potatoes, nothing that would entice or satisfy Max’s particular hunger that night. There’s games, a series of sorry-looking clapboard huts doused in stripes and cartoon characters, offering rows of stuffed jungle animals - elephants, monkeys, alligators, gorillas - to the anyone willing to test their skills and be parted from a quid or two.

 

He nods approvingly at a group of ladies that pass by - chubby-cheeked girls with ragged denim shorts and spray tans, lovely enough, still hard to deal with after the lanky chill of Danish girls.

 

He sees Michael for the first time on the fairway.

 

Maybe it’s the hair that catches his eye. From behind, someone with poor vision might mistake him for a tomboyish girl, with curls that extend past his ears and tickle his collar.The hands that are clutching and throwing some sorry-looking gray leather balls are undeniably masculine, blunt fingers white with tension. When Max focuses on the side view of the face, it’s comically pleasing, a Renaissance artwork profile trying to scowl.

 

He’s not out to get laid, although that’s always nice. If anything, he’s out for distraction. That’s what they told him, more or less, when he’d kicked: distract yourself. Find something else to look forward to. Anything else. 

 

Make it a habit, because old ones die hard.

 

The Renaissance profile with the Cupid curls doesn’t look to him, or meet the eyes of the smoking, ragged Dane who’s spotted him. The kid’s into the game. He sizes up the stacked wooden bottles, he pauses before every throw, licks his lips, aims. His technique’s unschooled, but not bad.

 

There’s also a chubby dark-haired middle-aged prat going for it down the row, two kids yelping expectantly yelping at him, whose tosses wind up going in every direction but forward.

 

Up against a scam, both of them are hopeless.

 

“Give us a go,” Max says, dropping a pound on the ledge of the game hut. It’s a phrase he’s heard his local fellow builders employ, mostly towards shapely women crossing the street.

 

The carny hands him three baseballs, bruised and misshapen with use, then wanders down, eyeing up other potential customers. To Max’s left, the kid’s shoulders drop with frustration, a curse is muttered out, and he lights up a cigarette as he begins to route through his pockets again.

 

Max takes a ball, hefts it in his hand, and lets loose. There’s a startling clatter as the bottles, dusty and settled with disuse, come apart in an arc, dotting the back of the camper before disappearing beneath the ledge.

 

The chubby father turns to him. Michael does a double-take.

 

“Mate, ‘ow’d you do that?” the father demands.

 

“I aim for the middle,” Max offers blithely.

 

The kid’s lips curl, his face a mixture of incredulity and amusement. The father turns back to his own stack, and throws again, arm newly inspired and wobbly in an ungraceful curve. The bottles remain standing.

 

There’s a sock monkey dangling from a corner of the hut, long wooly arms and legs, wide ears, a red smile of a mouth. It’s the one set up closest to the kid.

 

“I’ll have the monkey, please,” Max says.

 

“Sorry, mate,” the carny drawls, the only one present unimpressed with the recent display. “I’ve got keyrings and bracelets for the one win - you’d have to get all three to go home with a stuffy.”

 

Michael shakes his head, his disgust building, and pockets the pitiful-looking notes he’s got left. Whether these two are in on it together or not, he figures, it’s a lost cause.

 

Max smiles.

 

Michael’s own designated stack of wooden bottles go down with a sudden crash. He flinches, startled, eyes wide. Max turns to his right, aims his final ball, and the chubby father’s stack topples as well.

 

Everything goes still. Even the kids stop their yapping to stare at Max, jaws slack and candyfloss-rimmed.

 

When the carny hands him the monkey, his fingers are shaking.

 

“Been a real pleasure,” Max offers. “Now, fuck off.”

 

He looks for the kid standing next to him, but he’s gone, lost to the crowd, missed out on that particular show of bravado.

 

***

 

As cosmopolitan as London can be, the fair’s geared towards families, and places that aren’t pubs or clubs are usually shuttered by nine in the evening.

 

Max has threaded one of the monkey’s long arms into a belt loop, let it dangle, smoked most of the remaining cigarettes in his pocket. Few people look at him twice; if they do, he nods and carries on. He only out to wander and watch. 

 

He’s not interested in any more games.

 

The fairway’s quieting when he spies him, again, under a tree, slightly shaky hands cupped around a cigarette, trying to prevent midway breezes from extinguishing it. The leaves hanging from the dangling branches nearly obscure him, but someone working for the fair had wanted to keep even the impeding local nature festive, and had draped a few strands of fairy lights around the trunk and into the foliage above. Michael’s half-hidden, a slight little forest creature with unintentional tiny spotlights illuminating his hiding space.

 

“Got a light?” Max asks.

 

Michael’s eyes quirk up at him, quick recognition and the fairy lights reflected in their blue irises.

 

He holds out his lighter with long, blunt fingers, a simple leather string bracelet strung around the wrist.

 

Max takes the monkey’s long stuffed arms, wraps them around that thin extended wrist, and ties them in a hugging knot.

 

“Hey-” Michael manages.

 

Max takes the lighter, sets his cigarette aflame in one smooth motion, and hands it back.

 

Michael stands there, monkey dangling from his wrist, lighter resting in his palm. The corner of his mouth quirks.

 

“What’s going on, then?” Michael says.

 

Max exhales. The smoke is sweet, and welcome.

 

“For you,” he says.

 

“For me,” Michael says, after a moment, his tone too deadpan to ripen into a question.

 

“As you spent enough money to get one,” Max offers.

 

“Oh, it …” and Michael’s laughing. He can’t continue.

 

“Don’t tell me you wanted a fucking keyring,” Max says.

 

“No, I, ah,” Michael’s laugh hiccups into his words, “I had some extra, few extra pounds. Americans came in today, left me a tip.”

 

Max’s nose wrinkles.

 

“So you threw balls at bottles with it,” Max says.

 

Michael’s voice dips. “They were real arseholes, as well.”

 

It’s Max’s turn to laugh. Michael’s fingers pluck at the monkey’s arms, unwrap it. He weighs it against his palm, watches it dangle and grin back at him. There’s a quiet moment of tension, as if he’s gunshy, unsure if it’s a gesture of outright mockery.

 

“Thanks for the stuffy,” Michael says finally. “I’ll treasure it. Seat of honor. Everyone will hear the tale of the bloke who knocked down the unknockable wooden bottles. They were made of lead and a meter tall, they were.”

 

“It’s a talent,” Max says, trying to make his accent obey his English. “I’m happy to be immortalized.”

 

“You must’ve had a pissy day at work yourself,” Michael says. “You fucking obliterated them.”

 

Michael smiles. Max thinks he looks fucking delicious when he does.

 

“I’m not here to blow off some steam,” Max says. “I’m here because I live nearby.”

 

“You do, yeah?” Michael says.

 

His mouth quirks into a sideways grin, eyes glancing at the dimming lights of the midway. The fairy lights closest to his head peek through his curls in a colorful halo illusion.

“Maybe you should show me.”


End file.
